


Sweet Forgiveness

by SanSanFanFan



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, lemoncakes, post QI
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-25 08:45:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2615582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SanSanFanFan/pseuds/SanSanFanFan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa gets caught stealing lemoncakes by a travelling septon, who can't fucking believe that she doesn't recognise him...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Forgiveness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlackForestt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackForestt/gifts).



> Written for Blackforestt who wanted a fic around Sansa stealing lemoncakes in a kitchen late at night...
> 
> For the SSFF birthday gift fic doodah

The dull earthenware plate sat on the table between them, accusing her. The gap where two of the cakes should have been was lit only by the flickering light from the candle she’d brought with her when she’d snuck into this humble kitchen. 

They’d sat in silence in the dark and chill room since the moment he’d found her, a lemoncake still in her hand, jumping a gods damned league as he’d emerged from the shadows in his dark monk’s robe. Eyes lowered, she’d not even really looked at him, just taken a seat as he’d gestured her to do, placing the plate on the rough wooden table as she did. But she had to know him… didn’t she?!

“Forgive me… Forgive me.” Her voice was wavering. “I did not mean to…” She hastily wiped away a quickly forming tear with a delicate hand. “Forgive me… Father.”

What fucking game was this she was playing?! Yes, he wore the hooded robe of the men of the Isle, but she must have recognised him as he had recognised her! 

He’d been in the common room of the tavern when the well-off looking party had entered, bringing the chill wind and autumn leaves in through the door with them. He’d seen Baelish first, and Sandor had drawn his own hood closer over his head as the small man carelessly threw back his own satin one. He’d seen the man’s slimy smile fade as he’d taken in the simple rooms of the tavern. Seen him usher the girl further inside with a hand placed on her lower back as his men took seats and put their feet up on the tables and furniture. Sandor had seen the brown haired girl and fucking known her straight away, dye in her hair or no. Was she bloody well pretending not to know him now? What game was this?!

Was it his limp, his crippled bloody leg? Did she not know him because the Hound was whole and he was not? 

Or did she not expect to see the Hound, raper and the killer as they thought him now, in this meek guise of a septon? Did she not know him because the Hound, as he had been, was long gone?

“Why did you do it?” he asked, not knowing what else to say.

She _must_ recognise his voice even if his ruined face was deep in the shadows. Even if she’d somehow just accepted that there could be a septon as bloody tall and as broad as him! 

In King’s Landing a woman, a whore, had told him his voice haunted her dreams. And not good dreams at that. She’d avoided him after that fucking confession, seeking other coin with softer spoken clients. This one, this red haired girl turned brown haired lady, she must know the rasp of his ungentle fucking voice. He’d barked it at her often enough before… before he’d left her behind.

“Why did you do it… my child?”

Fuck her. He’d play along with her then, see what she wanted. Play the septon to her repentant sinner if that’s all she wanted from him. 

“I just wanted…. I just wanted something that did not cost me something in return.” She spoke quietly, her eyes lowered, her hands twisting in her lap.

“That’s why they fu- that’s why they call it _stealing_ , my child.”

“No, you do not understand.”

A thought seemed to occur to her then, awakening eagerness in her. “Can I confess to _you_? Can I tell _you_ the truth of things?” She still did not look at him, and for that he was fucking glad. Even if he ached to see those haunting eyes again. 

But did he want to know the ‘truth’? Oh he could guess at it! Guess at what those little touches on her back from the man calling himself her father meant. But did he want to know what she got up to with that cunt Littlefinger? He’d run whore houses. The fucker was probably teaching her all kinds of-

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He didn’t want to bloody know! 

But saying 'no' would mean that he’d have to return to his tiny room by the stables, and she’d return to the large chambers she’d been given. Bought with Littlefinger’s coin.

“What is your name, my child?” Let’s see what ‘truths’ she had for the fucking septon then!

“Sansa Stark.” 

He paused. He had not expected honesty.

“I thought the man, Lord Baelish, called you Alayne.” His voice was deeper yet as he struggled not to add curses to the man’s name.

“I am not Alayne.” She whispered. “I lie. I lie father. That is also a sin, is it not?”

He wracked his brain for memories of Elder Brother’s sermons, for his ways of turning words so that they sounded wise and holy.

“The Seven tell us so.” He said finally.

“I lie. And I steal. The cakes.”

If he were a true septon he’d have thought that too small a thing to be a sin. But if he were a true septon he also would not be staring at her from the depths of his hood as he was. Not noting the glowing paleness of her skin against the darker hair. Not noting the way her nightrobe was tied tightly across her at the waist. Not thinking about what soft cotton night shift she might be wearing beneath. Fuck that, some septons were worse than him! Some might be telling her to take off her night things in return for the forgiveness of the fucking gods. And she was fucking lucky no other whoreson had come across her out of her room at night in a roadside tavern between the Vale and the Isle.

“Why did you say you wanted something that did not cost something in return?” Her words bothered him, niggled at him.

She picked at the long sleeves of the richly embroidered satin nightrobe. 

“He is not my father. He provides for me as a father might. He gives me gifts as a father might. But he asks for _things_ in return… as a father would not.”

Under the table he clenched his fists against the rough spun cloth of his monk’s robe.

“I am wed. And I kiss another. Is that a sin, even when I do not want the kisses?”

“No, my child. That is not a sin. And he should not ask that of you.” The words came through gritted teeth. He was close to standing, charging off to the upper floors of the tavern on his fucking ruined leg and finding the fucker and… and… But Baelish had men with him. Men whose legs were whole. Men who hadn’t spent months without a buggering sword in their hands.

“Also, I did not honour my husband as I should have.” She looked away awkwardly, staring into the dark spaces of the silent kitchens. 

“I do not understand?” 

“The marriage was made in the sight of the Seven. But I did not submit to him as a wife should. Not on our wedding night. Nor any other night.”

“Does your false father make you lie with him?” He had to know, even though his blood was boiling at the thought of it, his fists aching from being so tightly furled.

She mutely shook her head, casting her eyes down to her hands again. 

Then she spoke again, and he had to fight hard to remain seated and to not upturn the table and all the fucking lemoncakes with it.

“Not yet.” She whispered.

“That would be a sin.” His voice was flat, controlled, just as he was controlling the ravening beast that wanted to escape and tear at the cunt with the neatly trimmed beard.

She nodded mutely. 

“I have bad thoughts about him. There are things I think of doing to him. Painful things.”

It was his turn to mutely nod.

“But I cannot. I’m just a stupid girl with stupid thoughts in her head.” Tears were falling down her cheeks, but she did not move to remove them. And then she did look up at him, those soul stealing blue eyes searing into the darkness of his hood. She must know who he was. She must.

“I am full of daydreams and fancies. I think of a man… a man I knew in King’s Landing. And I remember him in ways that are inappropriate. And I do not know if my memories are real or not.”

He held his breath, but she looked away.

“I even see him where he is not. I hear his voice from the lips of others. I dream of him.” Her small hands moved from her lap to the table. She fiddled with the plate of lemoncakes and twisting and turning it about until it had gone about in a full circle, her eyes focussed on the futile task.

“I even fancy that you… a _septon_ of all people… are a little like him.” She bit her lip and then he realised. This was not fucking pretence. She did not know him because she thought that she _did!_ She saw the shadow of the Hound in the septon, but thought that it was her mind playing tricks again!

And she had thought on him… thought of him even after the fucking night that the Blackwater burned green and he’d… he’d…

“Is it a sin to imagine… to imagine being with a man? To imagine what it would be like?”

_Gods! Seven fucking gods! Old fucking gods and new!_

“Father? Father are you well?” 

He realised that he was now gripping the sides of the table, fingers turning pale from the force he waged on the wood. Her hands moved hesitantly and lay over his own.

Surely she must know now! She must feel the roughness of his fingers as she curled her own into his. She must feel the lines of scars there!

“I am truly sorry I stole from the tavern keeper. I am sorry for confessing all my hopeless sins at such a late hour. I should return to my rooms. ” She released his fingers and moved to leave, but his hand was quicker, grasping her wrist and forcing her to turn back, making her gasp as her robe swirled back towards him with her movement. Like she was dancing for him.

His voice cracked as he finally spoke the words.

“On the Isle… on the Isle I dreamt of you. I prayed for you. _Me_ , of all fucking sinners, _I_ prayed to the Seven for you.” He looked down, drawing more into the shadows of his hood. “I’ve killed men. Many men. And you worry about stealing _lemoncakes_... and hating a man you should bloody well hate!” He laughed darkly, a bitter sound that cracked with his heart.

“Forgive me… forgive me… Sansa.” There was wetness on his face, and he brushed it away quickly with his other hand. “If I hadn't scared you that night. If I hadn't been drunk!”

She sat down again, but did not try to force him to release her wrist. There was curiosity writ across her lovely face, but he could barely bring himself to raise his eyes and look at the brightness of her, as though she was the fucking sun itself.

“Sandor? Is it you, truly?!” 

He found himself trembling. He let go of her wrist, moving hands to his hood, pushing it back to show her the scarred ruin that she surely could not pretend was another man’s face.

He closed his eyes rather than see hers looking over the angles and twists of his face, and knowing him finally. He closed his eyes rather than see what this truth meant for them now.

“Would you… would you like a lemoncake?” 

He found amazed laughter bubbling up through him, breaking the silence of the dark kitchens, and he opened his eyes to see her holding a piece out to him. He took it, tried it, and found it was at once the sweetest and the most bitter thing he had ever eaten. 

Crumbs at the corner of his mouth were brushed away by a gentle hand. And when she spoke again his eyes met hers for the first time.

“Tell me your sins, Sandor.” She paused, gathering courage. “Tell me of them. Tell me, have you ever stolen… _anyone_?” She looked at him with honest, open eyes. Questioning eyes.

“Not yet.” He whispered.


End file.
